Dear Santa: It's Me, Derek
by ChloeWeird
Summary: Long distance is tough, especially around the holidays. But Derek and Stiles can get through it...with a few snags along the way. (Sterek. Christmas fic. Established Relationship. Magical Stiles Stilinski.)
1. Chapter 1

The man stood away from all the clusters of people in the airport. He was too far from the entrance to be one of the businessmen, waiting for their cabs. Too close to the gates to be part of the Starbucks line. Not near enough to the baggage claim to be watching for something. He simply stood, unmoving, near enough to the domestic arrivals gate that anyone who noticed him figured he must be waiting for someone, though he was aloof from people who brandished signs and hushed excited family dogs.

Anyone who kept an eye on him for longer than a few minutes noticed how his frown would intensify and his fists would squeeze closed whenever the group of sparkly-antler-wearing carollers started a new song, as if every single tune was the one he hated most in the world.

Lots of people wait in airports. Being a place to wait is essentially an airport's primary function. This particular man wouldn't have looked so out of place if it weren't for a few noticeable things.

First, his clothes. His leather jacket was as black as the coal parents were still threatening their children with, even though the presents were already purchased, wrapped, and hidden in the guest bedroom closet, the one with a lock on it. The jacket had a few more fastenings and straps on it than were strictly necessary, and was just that side of worn that it didn't look expensive, merely big and dark and vaguely reminiscent of television shows about motorcycles that came on after 9PM.

Similarly, his dark sunglasses, unseasonable for December even in California, did next to nothing to hide the murderous look on his face, which was a disturbing contrast to the cheerful red and green (and blue and white and black, since this was a self-consciously inclusive airport).

But, mostly, the thing that made this man stand out was his preternatural stillness. In 3 hours of waiting, he hadn't moved an inch. Not to scratch his nose, or check the time or look longingly toward the Duty Free. When people walked past, they gave his shoulders a wide berth. The only parts of him that moved were his clenching hands and his deep scowl.

Airports aren't known for being places where the atmosphere is relaxed and carefree, so naturally, his presence was bound to make a few people take note.

Bigoted passersby dismissed their worries because of the lightness of his skin. Mothers held their children's hands tighter, refusing to feel guilty about their protective instincts.

A nervous man, flying for only the second time, the first in his adult life, clutched and shredded the last tissue he'd had in the travel pack, unable to keep his eyes from flicking back to the lonely, waiting man. He'd seen the news. He knew that there were whackjobs who targeted places like this.

Who knew what he could be hiding under all that leather? Perhaps he wasn't as buff as he looked, perhaps the bulk was due to something more sinister. After an hour of fretting, panicking and texting of last wishes to his loved ones, the nervous man screwed up his courage.

The tension in the surrounding area dialed up further the closer he got to the security booth. He was about to clear his throat and gain the guard's attention when the man with the sunglasses-after 3 hours of complete stillness-moved. He wove quickly and quietly through the crowd that waited for flight number 1793 from Connecticut.

"Derek!"

The bright, jovial cry came from another man, who didn't look at all out of place amongst the students who flew home in droves this time of year from Yale. His smile stretched his wide cheeks, and was met with an answering one from the man with the sunglasses. Soon, neither of them were smiling, because they were too busy kissing, and the sunglasses were shoved out of the way.

Most of the onlookers found something else to gawk at fairly quickly, a fair few of them as red-cheeked as the jolly Santa the airport had hired to distract cranky, overheated children. (The ones that didn't were old enough to know of such things, and were unashamed of their appreciation.)

"I told you I could take a bus. You didn't have to come all this way," the new guy said, though the tone of his voice gave away that he hadn't had any intention of buying a bus ticket. Derek's reply was lost in the shoulder of his hoodie, since they hadn't yet parted from their close embrace.

Whatever he'd said, it shocked a laugh from the newcomer, who pulled back from the hug to ask, teasingly, "have you been hanging around here looking like a serial killer? Again, Derek? For real?"

This earned him a shove and a quiet grumble, then they were kissing again, slowly and longingly, like it hadn't quite sunk in that there wasn't the distance of a whole country between them. Hands grasped and bodies pressed together as their reunion stretched out for long minutes, sweet as the candy cane flavouring that the Starbucks had run out of that morning.

When someone finally did involve security, it was to warn them against public indecency, and send them off where they obviously wanted to be.

Home.


	2. Chapter 2

Hot chocolate always made Stiles fall asleep. It didn't matter if it was mixed with coffee, or filled with exotic ingredients, or if it was the middle of the afternoon, he always needed a nap after he'd had a mug. He'd explained to Derek once that his mom would make it for him when he couldn't sleep as a kid, because warm milk made him gag.

Stiles had cajoled and wheedled and begged for Derek to make some, so even though they still had two episodes to go of the new season of Supernatural, which they'd been saving to watch together during Stiles' winter break, Derek got up to make it, on the stove with cocoa powder and an insane amount of sugar, like his grandmother used to.

Stiles stayed in the living room with his bowl of popcorn while Derek poured out the quantities of each ingredient without the aid of a measuring cup. He'd watched the process more times than he could count, and he couldn't forget something like that, even though she'd been gone since a few years before the fire.

It used to be a Christmas eve tradition. (Plus all the other times Derek and his sisters and cousins had pestered long enough.) He'd had a lot of holiday rituals growing up, including humouring his mother and father about Santa Claus, though every werewolf in the house could hear the harmless lies about a jolly fat man in a red suit who came in through some indeterminate hole in their house. (It was California. They'd never had a chimney.)

Derek had reached a point in his life where he could smile at the memory of his dad's breath that reeked of cookies left for Santa, and his mom getting impatient for the turkey to be done because she needed the oven space, and his aunt drinking too much spiked eggnog and teaching them dirty versions of all their favourite Christmas songs. It still hurt, all that happiness, but it was a good hurt, like the relief after swallowing a bite of food that was too hot to eat.

In New York with Laura, the grief had been too fresh, too sharp for them to try and revive any of those old routines, or do anything really, other than hole themselves up in their rooms and try to keep the animal in them from howling with their pain. Their walls had been too thin for that.

The sugar had dissolved completely and Derek was just about to take down some mugs from the cupboard when Stiles' arms wrapped around his waist, and his nose nuzzled into his shoulder blades.

"One more semester, babe," he said, into the cashmere sweater he'd gotten Derek for Christmas, since Derek was too stubborn to buy the soft ones for himself. "That's less than 6 months. "Then I'm home for good."

Derek didn't ask how Stiles knew he'd been thinking about it. They were both constantly thinking about it.

It really wasn't that daunting.. They'd already made it through the first year and a half of Stiles' master's degree, even though the Sheriff had started a betting pool on how long it would take Derek to pick up and move to Yale. Derek hadn't discouraged it, but he'd known that he couldn't leave Beacon Hills. His pack could handle his frequent weeklong visits, but not months of an absent alpha.

Derek squeezed Stiles' hands around his waist, then went to the cupboard for the mugs, and the fridge for the can of whipped cream, dragging his Stiles limpet around the kitchen. He finally let go when Derek was pouring the hot chocolate into the cups, so he didn't get burned by the sugary milk.

Stiles got cream on his nose and Derek didn't tell him about it for 10 minutes, just to hear his outraged squawks when he had to clean it off and it had gone sticky as glue. True to form, Stiles started blinking slower as soon as his mug was empty and complained only superficially when Derek started herding him toward their bed. He was out like a light before Derek was back from shutting off the DVD so that the menu didn't play all night, face down and drooling into the pillow. He'd regret not brushing his teeth tomorrow morning, but Derek didn't have the heart to wake him up just for that.

The pack tended to leave them alone when Stiles was home, mostly out of self-preservation. The assumption was that they'd be going at it like rabbits for the entirety of his stay and they didn't want to have to burn their eyes out if they dropped by for a visit. They weren't entirely wrong-the first few days of Stiles' break, they rarely left the bedroom-but even Derek, with his werewolf stamina, couldn't keep that up for the entire 2 and a half weeks.

The pack probably thought that tonight, the last day before Stiles went back to Yale, they'd be having one last hurrah in bed before a few more months of lonely celibacy, interspersed with some disappointing phone sex. It never seemed to work out that way for them. The last day before Stiles or Derek got back on a plane, they were more likely to spend cuddling quietly in bed than having sex, too aware of the clock counting down for anything other than desperate closeness.

Derek slid in next to Stiles and rolled on his side, sure that sleep would be a long time coming, but content to watch Stiles until he was able to drop off. Derek had never wanted to be one of those guys who stared at their boyfriend in bed while Aerosmith played in the background, but he had to admit it was probably inevitable. People in his family had always been prone to obsession, whether over their partners or over getting the right kind of cranberry sauce at the grocery store. So, the intensity of the feelings he had for Stiles shouldn't have surprised him.

He and Stiles had talked before about how odd it was that, even surrounded by supernatural creatures of all kinds, neither of them believed in any religion's version of God. The same went for the tooth fairy, the easter bunny and Santa Claus. But, if Derek did believe in that kind of thing, he'd be praying to whoever would listen for one more gift.

He wanted another day with Stiles. 24 hours more of merciless teasing, unasked-for commentary on movies and kisses so sweet and slow Derek's heart pounded because he kept worrying they were some unspoken wish that it would be the last one.

He knew Stiles had to go. It wasn't like he wanted Stiles stay forever, not when he was so close to the degree he needed to have for his own peace of mind. It was just that the 2 and a half weeks had gone by in a blink of pack dinners and movie nights and just being together in the same room, feeling each other's heat and not having to wait 10 seconds for a response to _Do you still want me? Is this worth it? Am I holding you back?_

He didn't wish out loud for a miracle, for a freak snowstorm, or a bomb threat at Yale that shut it down for another week, but if it was the last thing he thought before Stiles' deep, even breaths lulled him to sleep, he'd be the only one to know.

Their bed was cold when Derek woke up, and he rolled to his back, his heart sinking as he scrubbed a hand down his face. Twisted, clammy anger flooded his chest as tried not to blame Stiles for leaving without waking him. Stiles hated goodbyes, in every form. Whether for a brief and happy trip or a long, necessary absence, Stiles was more likely to text a hasty "see ya" than linger and hug and gush a farewell.

But he'd _told_ Derek he'd let him drive him the airport in the morning. It was what they always did, and as much as it hurt, it was the good kind of hurt like when he thought about his family.

Derek sat up, intending to reach for his phone to call Stiles and demand to know what he was thinking, but when he got to his feet, he saw Stiles' bags still parked by the door. Frowning, he sniffed the air. Stiles was definitely gone, and recently, but the deep drag of air smelled of something else.

Admonishing himself for his stupid hope the whole way, he walked to the window, and the cold, crisp ozone smell grew stronger. He pulled back the curtain and there it was. Snow swirled in the air outside his house, falling thick enough to obscure the trees on the other side of his backyard, but, oddly, having trouble staying on the ground.

The door opened behind him and the scent of Stiles and fresh bagels from the shop in town billowed in.

"Hey," Stiles said, awkwardly jostling the bagels and the tub of cream cheese he'd brought from the kitchen.

"Hey." Derek crossed his arms and jerked his chin toward the white mess outside. "Deaton's going to yell at you. Not really _responsible future emissary_ behaviour."

Stiles shrugged, and almost lost the butter knife balanced on top of his haul. "I know. It's worth it, though. I wasn't ready."

Derek watched the snow fall a little longer, then took the bag of breakfast out of his hands and put it on Stiles' nightstand. Stiles knew that stuff was contraband on Derek's side.

Stiles tossed his other offerings on the end of the bed and rubbed his arms under Derek's new cashmere sweater. "Hold me. I'm cold."

Derek scoffed and climbed into their bed, holding the blanket up for Stiles. "Come here, you big baby."

"Hey, California native, here," Stiles said, defensively as he snuggled in. "I bring a jacket when it's 65 degrees. It's not so bad in Connecticut yet, but I almost lost a toe last year."

"You should try a winter in New York. Laura and I used to sit way too close to this old ceramic heater she'd gotten at a thrift shop. It was probably a fire hazard."

Stiles brushed his lip back and forth over Derek's shoulder, and Derek could feel his smile. "Tell me more about New York."

Their body heat eventually turned their blanket into a furnace and Stiles had to get up to lose his jeans. Tomorrow, Stiles would end the spell, and go back to Yale for 6 more months, but it would be made a little easier by this last day of winter embraces, cold bagels and bittersweet memories of Christmases past.


End file.
